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Many thanks to my online writing friends (which the vast majority of my writing friends are) for the topics for the NaNoWriMo series.

This week, a few of my writing buds sad they haven’t found “the zone,” or that their muse wasn’t showing up when they tried to write and they got nothing done on their NaNo novel.

What creative person hasn’t been there? Creativity is the most fun when every part of me is singing along to the same song–in 4 part harmony, even. I see the path ahead leading to a place I’ve never been before. If writing, I know where the scene will go, the theme, the end, the deep thoughts of the characters, the witty repartee, the biting sarcasm. If drawing, I see the lines on the paper before I make them, my mind sees the entire picture before my hand is laying out before it is complete. If singing, my voice has the next notes ready and my musically challenged brain doesn’t have to search for it as the sound leaves my throat. (This only happens in the car though. Alone.)

But what if your muse takes the day off of to climb Mt. Everest? Or your zone isn’t about writing, but thinking about how you maybe should go back to Facebook and delete that post about your dumb co-worker, although you never used her name. Or even that you should get up and go clean out the cat box.

A muse is a romantic notion and usually involves an unreliable fictitious entity.

Since NaNo is all about the word count, you don’t have time for your muse to come off Everest (if she ever does–that hill is littered with bodies, much like peaceful small towns where TV sheriffs and mystery writers live). You can’t wait for your zone to move to your writing place. You have to put down words. Dec. 1 waits for no one, my friends.

It’s time for #buttinchair.

Sit. Turn off the internet. Block out sound. Close the door. Start typing.

Don’t wait for the perfect sentence. Don’t search around the vocabulary junk drawer for just the right word.

Just write. #buttinchair #amwriting

“She walked into the room. It was dark. She didn’t like dark rooms because when she was small her brother scared her in one so bad she pees her pants and he joked about it until the zombies got him.”

There, 40 words. Pretend they’re related to your story. Do that again and again and again and pretty soon you have 250 words. When I get stuck, I make myself write 250 words about what could happen next in my story. By the time I get to 250, an idea has usually sparked. Maybe the light shines on my Zone and my Muse is ready to talk to me again. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll keep the words in revisions, maybe not. But they’re words. They count. And most importantly, I forged ahead and made progress.

Sometimes, lots of times, really, writing is like your job. You don’t feel like flipping that damn burger, but you do. You don’t feel like cutting into that skull to relieve intracranial pressure, but you do. You don’t feel like changing yet another wet diaper. But you do. Some hungry person gets their food, some patient’s headache gets better, and your baby won’t get diaper rash. It wasn’t fun, but it was done. Progress was made.

The Muse, the Zone, are romantic ideas, and when they show up, they’re fun to be with. But they’re fickle and you can’t depend on them to write your novel.

Michael Fassbender: A possible muse.

Another possibility: Oscar Isaac

So, here I am, #buttinchair, writing words. No, blog posts don’t count for NaNo. While I’m writing, maybe my muse for mopping the kitchen floor will show up. He’s been quite elusive this year and I can’t mop the floor without him.

The Ernest Hemingway said this and his shit (revised and edited) is so good we’re forced to read it in school. (I preferred Steinbeck to Hemingway. I’m sure Steinbeck’s first drafts were shit, too.)

This is true. If you, oh novice writer, expect to dazzle the world, or even yourself, by what comes through the tips of your fingers and onto your screen, or paper, or whatever the first time, you are setting yourself up for failure.

Failure, I tell you.

You may be a literary genius waiting to be discovered. Your mind may be gestating the next Lord of the Rings, but with aliens and zombies, just what the world and Hollywood are dying to get their hands on. You may have imagined it in scintillating detail while bored in class, at work, with your friends when they’re talking about reality TV and sports. You’re there, staring off into space, creating the perfect battle, the perfect sex scene, crafting the perfect snappy comeback. Maybe you lose sleep over it at night.

And then you go to write it down. The words flow like wine at an ancient Roman feast. Many, many words. You get goosebumps from the elation of creation or the emotion of the scene. You are in the zone, living those orgasmic moments every writer dreams of.

Then you lose your steam because it can’t be maintained forever. You go back and read. Maybe the words are really good words in a great order and you say out loud so your cat looks at you, “Wow! These are really good words. I like–no–I bloody love these words. What happens next?” Your cat asks, “Meow?” And your mind goes blank. For days. Weeks. Lifetimes.

Or the words really suck. They’re stupid words, rudimentary and awkward, not coming close to what you imagined. It’s like you’re back in 3rd grade. “Hi! My name is Theresa and I’m going to tell you about zombies and aliens.” And you think, “And I have a degree in __________________?” So you give up, pour a glass of wine and remember The Bachelorette is on TV. Your cat yawns and stays put.

Or the words don’t come. Like sitting on the toilet. You know there is shit in you, but it’s stuck. You stare at the white screen and think too hard. You don’t know how to begin because you know whatever you write, it will be, well, shit. So you don’t write. You don’t push. You don’t want hemorrhoids in your brain. Your cat is nowhere to be seen. Besides, The Bachelorette is on.

Here are some things to know:

Every writer has been there, some are there now, even experienced bestsellers. Even the ghostwriters for some of those bestsellers.

Everyone who has written a novel was a beginner once.

Every novelist writes shit, but goes back and fixes it.

The more you write and study the craft of writing, the easier it will be to write less shit and easier to recognize and fix it during revisions.

Your novel will NEVER be as great as you want it to be. Eventually, it may come close with lots and lots more work (known as revising.)

You have to write the shit. You have to write when you don’t feel like it. You know how crappy you feel when you’re constipated? That’s how you’ll start to feel. And you’ll be grouchy. And the people you have to see will think you’re weirder than usual. And people who know you will know you’re constipated and give you prunes. And your writer people will tell you, “Just sit down and write the shit.”

Writing a novel is a long, huge process, and you’re doing it alone. But you’re doing it! Don’t give up on your story because it’s not behaving like you want it to. You didn’t listen to your parents all the time, and they still fed you, right?

Remember, shit happens. It has to happen. It’s called the first draft.

Like this:

If you’re a writer and use the internet (duh) you’ve probably heard ofNaNoWriMo. (Well, maybe not. Today I mentioned it to a co-worker who’s a writer and he never heard of it. But then, he still uses Juno for email and he’s not even as old as I am.) If not, NaNoWriMo is short for National Novel Writing Month where writers of all ilk strive, struggle, and sacrifice to write 50,000 words in November. It’s how the writing bug bit me and has yet to let go. It’s become more and more respectable each year since its first in 1999. If your an introverted dork like myself, it’s the social event of the year. Some folks write because they just like to. Some, like me, besides the like part, write to share their stories through traditional or self-publication.

Fifty thousand words average out to be 1667 words a day. I write all the time now and sometimes I write that much, but often I don’t.

NaNo is like a writing marathon you run around your day job, your family, obligations you can’t put on hold, and Thanksgiving. Some years, I worked full time, other years I had no job. This year I have a parttime, I’m judging films for the local film festival and I have person/people coming for Thanksgiving. I also like to do my Christmas decorating by the end of the month.

To succeed, it’s important to be willing to make changes to your lifestyle for these 30 days including:

Coffee: Or caffeinated beverage of choice. Mine is coffee. Morning, noon and evening. when writing at home, it’s a good reason to extract my butt from my chair. Pepsi is great, too, but I have to limit that.

Write-ins: When you sign up for NaNo (here) you’re encouraged to connect with the region where you find yourself. Municipal Liaisons (self-sacrificing NaNo heroes) set up and run meetings where WriMos (NaNo writers) get together and conduct word sprints and other challenges to get your word count up. They are motivating and a lot of fun. You get to meet people who are crazy and dorky in your kind of way and they become your friends. You can also set up your own if the MLs times and places don’t suit you. Most regions have Facebook groups, too. Some hold virtual write-ins that are fun and helpful, too.

TV:Plan on giving it up for November. DVR The Walking Dead or whatever you think you can’t live without. You know how you mindlessly watch one show after the other without thinking? Stop it and write. Whoever wrote what you watch didn’t watch much TV at the beginning of their careers.

Tell a few trusted people: Most people are going to think you’re crazy. Seriously, they will. The kind of people who don’t have a story burning a hole in their brain. They’ll want you to keep showing up at work, to keep cooking and washing their clothes and changing their diapers. They won’t care you’ve decided to write a book. Tell people who will understand that. If you don’t have any right off, tell people you’re close to and maybe one or two will care. Well, tell them anyway so when you say, “One more sentence,” before you get up and cook dinner, they’ll know why.

Facebook Groups: As I said earlier, your region probably has a group so you can connect with local peeps. You can search “writing” and such on FB and see what you find. Also, look for groups who write the genre you’re in. Some pages belong to associations you have to pay money to join, but there are plenty others. Like all FB groups, there are some filled with negative people, and others brimming with lovely folk. Keep looking until you find your tribe or two. But don’t spend too much time in November looking. We all know what a timesuck FB is! NaNoWriMo has an FB page, too.

Late Nights and Weekends: You can’t be a writer and not lose sleep and not give up social events. It’s against the rules of the secret NaNo Writers league. Art is suffering (often). Suck it up, make fresh coffee, grab some M&Ms and stop thinking about going to bed or that party where everyone is only making small talk, anyway.

Snacks of the healthy and unhealthy variety.It’s important their easy to handle and don’t make your fingers sticky and messy. Like my favorite, Crunchy Cheetos. That orange craps sticks to my fingers. Healthy snacks could be celery sticks with peanut butter to dip in, veggies of any kind. Dip makes them less healthy, but make sure yo control it so it doesn’t blop on your keyboard. I like lightly salted nuts, too. For the unhealthy stuff, I like M&Ms, Skittles, jelly beans, licorice all sorts. Those aren’t too messy. It’s good to drink water while you write, too. Ice, lemon, fruit or veggie infused, all good.

No Editing: One of the rules of NaNoWriMo is to turn off your inner editor. Put it in a soundproof room. Pretend it’s your high school Comp. teacher who fussed over commas and dependent clauses and the subjunctive tense. Lock that fool up so you can’t hear her/him. You never paid attention anyway so you still don’t know if it’s who or whom. You can’t write 50,000 in 30 days if you keep going back over the ones you already wrote. There will be time for that before next November.

Save Research For Later:Some people (usually plotters) will plot out and plan their novels and begin researching long before November 1. Not me. I’m a pantser–I write by the seat of my pants. Searching on Google for the largest alligator ever of how do they use the bathroom in Japan doesn’t add to your word count. I usually just as a note in the text, bold it so I can find it later, then write on. Or you can make something up and bold it, adding to your word count and fact check starton on Dec. 1.

Cheat a Little: For the desperate. Copy and paste the lyrics to the song your character has in her head that may or may not pertain to her current situation. Write meaningless dialogue that won’t make the final cut.

And Did I Say Coffee?Also chocolate, wine, beer, and booze at the right time.

You’re not going to come out of November with 50,000 shiny words publishers will kill for at an auction. At best, you’ll have a very rough draft that will need more than a month of TLC to get ready for anyone to want to read. But you have more than you started with. And when you tell people you wrote a book, they’ll be awestuck and find you the most amazing person they met that day, even if they haven’t read a book since high school.

Because of NaNoWriMo, I have 4 completed novels and 3 others in various stages of drafts. Two, I have self-published, one I am shopping for an agent with, and one is my very first NaNo novel that I revised but haven’t decided to go further with. NaNo is how I write my rough drafts. I love the fast pace, the time challenge, the way the characters show up and tell me their stories.

No, I’m not a best-seller. Yet. But National Novel Writing Month has shown me I can put my stories on paper, I can learn the craft of writing, and I can finish large projects for myself.

Like this:

I turned 60 last month. It’s a milestone. Actually, lots of milestones. I had a friend who turned 60 about 20 years ago. She said, “My grandmother said when you turn 60, you can say whatever you want.” That was when her grandmother’s life expectancy was probably 65-67. Now, if you start saying whatever you want when you turn 60, you most likely have a good 20-25 years to piss people off, including your kids who will be making arrangements for your care in your dotage.

No, I’m still biting my tongue. Mostly. Because I have a lot to learn still. If I want to do things like earn points from Starbucks, I have to learn how to download and use their app and figure out how to use the code I got to get a free drink. So I did that today. I also learned I can order ahead and my drink will be waiting for me. I also learned, having done that, it was quicker to park my car and run into the shop than to wait in the drive-thru line.

(On a side note, we have Dutch Brothers Coffee around here. If you don’t know they’re little kiosks taking up space in what used to be a usable parking lot. They’re manned by hyperactive teens (do employees get free coffee?) Their lines are always a block long. Nope. My days are numbered. I don’t got time to spend in too many drive-thrus anymore.)

Of course, I had to delete about 4 other apps from my phone to download the Starbucks one because my phone doesn’t have a lot of memory. Because I’m poor. One of the apps was the Square Point of Sales. I have a Square reader that can be used to collect payments for my little sewing business and maybe for selling books. Because nobody carries cash anymore.

Woodstock stamp. The now iconic music festival was not well-received by mainstream society in 1969.

Or buys stamps. I use maybe six stamps a year, not including Christmas cards. Most of the people I know don’t use stamps, even at Christmas because I don’t get cards from them anymore. But I still feel neglected and forgotten. There’s no app for that yet. Unless it’s a game you get addicted to and you forget about the real world.

Fred always had a gray suit in my world.

Advanced technology when I was a kid was color TV. We didn’t have one. There is probably more computer power in my 8 gig cell phone than there was on any Apollo space mission craft when I was a kid. Actually, I imagine a gigabyte of computer memory back then was unimaginable. I would look it up, but my time is precious.

I guess keeping up with technology is good for my brain. When I can no longer do it, I’ll have to sit back in my zero-gravity chair watching reruns of The West Wing, Breaking Bad, and Law and Order on my smart tv that is a lot dumber than the virtual reality glasses people use when they’re flying around in their driverless cars while probes inject emotional reactions from TV and movies directly into their nervous systems.

When I was six years old, I gave my first blowjob.
“It’s a game”, said He. “Don’t you want to play?”
It was too big, and I threw up on him.
He said I’d do better the next time.

When I was seven years old, I watched a group of fellow second graders cheer as a boy in my class tried to kiss me. He hugged me from behind, giggling all the while.
I threw sand in his eyes, and was sent to the Principal.

When I was eight years old, I had an elderly teacher ask me to stay behind in class. He carried me on his shoulders, and called me pretty.
“Teacher’s Pet!” my friends declared, the envy visible on their faces.
They ignored me at lunch that day.

When I was nine years old, an older girl on the school bus would ask me to lift my skirt up for her. She was pretty and kind, and told me that I could only be her friend if I did what she said.
I wanted to be her friend.

When I was ten years old, a relative demanded that he get a kiss on the cheek every time we met. He was large and loud, and I proceeded to hide under my bed whenever I learnt that he was visiting.
I was known as a rude child.

When I was eleven, my auto-man told me that we would only leave if I gave him a hug every day.
He smelled like cheap soap and cigarettes.

When I was twelve years old, I watched as a man on the street touched my mother’s breast as he passed us. She slapped him amidst the shouts of onlookers telling her to calm down.
She didn’t calm down.

When I was thirteen years old, I exited a restaurant only to see a man visibly masturbating as he walked towards me. As he passed, he winked lasciviously.
My friends and I shifted our gazes down, aghast.

When I was fourteen, a young man in an expensive car followed me home as I walked back from an evening class. I ignored his offer to give me a ride, and I panicked when he got out, only to buy me a box of chocolate that I refused. He parked at the end of my road, and didn’t go away for an hour.
“It turns me on to see you so scared.”

When I was fifteen, I was groped on a bus. It was with a heart full of shame that I confided in a friend, only to be met with his anger and disappointment that I had not shouted at the molester at the time when it happened. My soft protests of being afraid and alone were drowned out as he berated my inaction. To him, my passiveness and silence were the reasons why things like this continue to happen.
He did not wait for my response.

When I was sixteen, I discovered that Facebook had a section of inbox messages named ‘others’, which contained those mails received from strangers, automatically stored as spam. Curious, I opened it to find numerous messages from men I had never seen before. I was propositioned, called sexy, asked for nudes, and insulted.
Delete message.

When I was seventeen, I called for help as a drunken man tried to sexually harass me in a crowded street.
The people around me seemed to walk by quicker.

At eighteen, I was told that sexism doesn’t exist in modern society.
I was told that harassment couldn’t be as bad as us women make it out to be.
That I should watch what I wear.Never mind you were six, never mind you were wearing pink pajamas.That I should be louder.But not too loud, a lady must be polite.That I should always ask for help.But stop overreacting, there’s a difference.That I should stay in at night, because it isn’t safe.You can’t get harassed in broad daylight.That I should always travel with no less than two boys with me.You need to be protected.

Like this:

5 of 5 stars
I still can’t pinpoint why I was so absorbed in this book, in Donald who is not a flashy man but is steady and devoted to his family. Maybe it’s the deep point of view or maybe it’s the hints that get dropped along the way or his humility as he confesses the small lies, omittances, and errors in judgment that led to a devastating event that changed his family forever.<br /><br />I missed Donald when the narrative switched to his wife Viv for a short time. But she filled in gaps in the story that Donald knew nothing about, why she did what she did based on unrealized dreams and her obsession with the horse Mercury that she didn’t own. When Donald comes back, knowing now what he missed before, he sees what his misperceptions were and how those gaps in his knowledge and his character shaped events.<br /><br />Livesey manages to weave themes of honesty, friendship, family, and marriage into a complicated, highly readable tapestry of modern life. I recognized her name on the library bookshelf because she had been a lead instructor in the MOOC Iowa Writer’s Workshop recent course of which I am a dropout. I hope to read more by her in the future.

Like this:

It’s early on November 15th, 2016 and my NaNo word count is at 30,000 and change. 5000 words ahead, 20,000 more to go to win at 50,000.

I’me being a NaNo rebel this year, meaning I’m not writing a new novel, I’m doing whatever the heck I want. I don’t really need a new story in my head at this point.

Here’s what I’m doing instead:

Continuing to revise Killing Julie. This started out as What Deosn’t Kill You for 2010’s NaNo. I had started to revise it a few years ago, but it got lost on my broken hard drive, but that’s okay. I’m liking this better. For NaNo I’m adding 2 new points of view, one first person POV (as is Julie’s) for the love interest Dan and one 3rd person that will cover Julie’s experiences with her psycho ex-lover. I changed the title becaseu there are literally thousands of book and series title that use What Doesn’t Kill You somehow.

Here’s the premise: Three things converge on Julie to change her happily productive although lonely life in Phoenix, Arizona. She’s diagnosed with a rare leukemia in an advanced stage. Dan walks into her shop and her life. Through Dan, accidentally, she encounters Craig, her ex-lover from who she escaped and gave up her promising career in L.A. as a costume designer. Craig is not a nice man.

Continuing with Lilyland book 3, Places Like Home. That’s the working title. I have lots of it written but kept getting stuck with the beginning part, but I’m getting that worked out. I don’t work on it as often as Julie at this point.

Premise: Lily marries David and adopts his special needs daughter. She’s tapped to direct the first film of the reboot of a major fantasy/sci-fi franchise and encounters sexism in many forms, more than ever. A devasting loss sinks Lily almost to the bottom, but with a young child she can’t afford to stay there.

I’ve set up and gone to two write-ins, where WriMos meet somewhere with their writing instruments and write, chat, write, chat, etc. Because of write-ins, November is my most social month. Because I’m a dork.

Like this:

I didn’t pay much attention to the election updates yesterday until well after the polls closed even here in the western states. I detest political pundits blathering pointlessly over tiny tidbits of information as they trickle in that they spin to cause sensational nonsense in order to keep people glued to their network. But I knew enough before I went to bed so when I woke up in the middle of the night I thought, “Oh no. Trump.” Then I hoped maybe states uncounted before I hit the hay (and chased the dog off my side of the bed) might make a difference. It was not to be.

I wasn’t a fan of Hilary Clinton, either but would have voted for her if I hadn’t heard of Gary Johnson. He didn’t tickle all my presidential toes. He came the closest even though I knew he stood a snowball’s chance in an Arizona August.

Donald Trump was quite unpresidential during his campaign as if he just spouted off the top of that weirdly-haired head of his and said whatever his brain spewed up. I pray he does better now and takes the responsibility of the office seriously as public service and not an ego boosting spree firing up divisiveness. I pray if he gets stupid Congress fights him as hard as they did Obama on issues. Prayerful people I know and respect believe Trump is God’s choice to lead our country. The Bible often says those in authority are put there by God. In that I trust. I pray our country is led to be greater, but not necessarily in Trump’s way. America still has marvelous people and potential.

What all of us as Americans have to do now is not gloat and not despair. Our country’s greatness comes from the good hearts of her people, certainly not from most of the representatives of we the people in federal government. We have to keep being kind and helpful, understanding and strong. We have to keep our minds open and our mouths shut more often. And when we speak, we have to do it with respect and honor for our fellow citizens.

One of my favorite things at a baseball game is singing God Bless America during the 7th inning stretch with everyone in the park. Well, I don’t usually sing because it’s often in a bad key for me and I get all choked up, sensitive dork that I am. So, sing that song in your head if you feel despair for our nation. If you don’t believe in God, choose another way to wish good things on our country, today and every day in the future.

Like this:

So, here it is, the ides of October 2016. While many women are thinking about the holidays and scouring Pinterest for decorating ideas and recipes, writing women are not.

Okay, I know I can’t speak for every woman writer. But on most of my writing Facebook pages, the talk is about NaNoWriMo . Thank the Lord there are places to go where no trace of politics can be found. NaNoWriMo is short for National Novel Writing Month which is November. Writers’ blogs and writers’ Facebook groups are filled with angst-ridden posts asking, “Who’s doing NaNo this year?”

We’re writers. Why the distress about doing what we love to do? You know how marathon runners stress about finishing their next race? Well, WriMos stress about completing 50,000 words in 30 days. Not just any, 50,000 words, but arranged in such a way they qualify as a novel. A rough draft of a novel, not one you can send out to agents yet (although some have, much to the chagrin and amusement of agents and publishers.) Or maybe it’s the mere beginning of an epic fantasy or a future detective series. Or a novella. Finding time to write that many words amidst the doings of everyday life is a challenge for many folks.

That’s no so much me anymore since I’m unemployed. But I remember those days. this year, besides NaNo, I’m also taking an online course with the University of Iowa Writing Workshop, and sending out queries for a revised former NaNo project, working on book 3 of Lilyland and working with a critique group. Writing, writing everywhere and not a royalty in sight. Sigh.

my unofficial slap-together cover

Since I started NaNo-ing in 2008, I have completed 8 rough drafts (although two were for the same novel). Two of those have been revised, edited, polished, and self-published. Another one I’m currently querying literary agents with. Two others I am currently revising.

If you think you have a novel in you that’s screaming to get out, give NaNo a try this year. Sign up here. You’ll meet a great online community to cheer you on and who will understand what you’re doing when no one around you does. You can meet other actual people face to face at local write-ins. You can drink gallons of coffee and nibble Skittles, M&Ms and pretzel nuggets like mad. Hopefully, you’ll be able to get your family or roommates to understand. If not, it’s only 30 days.